CHAPTER 14
Betty
I woke with my fingers pressed to my lips, still feeling the ghost of Archie's mouth on mine.
Morning light filtered through the silk curtains, casting the bedroom in shades of gold and cream.
Beyond the tall windows, the Mediterranean stretched out in impossible shades of blue, and somewhere in the palace gardens, a fountain splashed in a rhythm that should have been soothing.
But my pulse kept skipping, tripping over itself every time I remembered the way he'd pressed me against the door last night.
The way his hands had moved into my hair like he'd been thinking about it for days.
The rough edge in his voice when he'd said "when we do this properly. "
When. Not if.
I rolled over and buried my face in a pillow that probably cost more than my monthly rent back in Oregon, grinning like an idiot at the silk pillowcase.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman who had kissed men before.
I shouldn't be lying in bed replaying every detail like a teenager after prom.
But here I was, remembering the way he'd smiled against my mouth when I'd made that embarrassing sound.
The heat of his palm against my lower back.
The way he'd looked at me before walking away, like leaving was the hardest thing he'd done all day.
"Get it together, Betty," I muttered into the expensive pillow. "You have princess things to do today."
The smile wouldn't go away.
A knock on my door interrupted what I was generously calling reflection.
"Come in."
Carmela entered carrying a schedule in one hand, her expression professionally neutral except for a knowing glint in her eyes. Palace gossip, I was learning, traveled faster than light.
"Good morning, Your Highness. I hope you slept well."
"Like a rock. What's on the agenda?"
"Etiquette lesson with Madame Delacroix at ten, wardrobe fitting at noon for your new formal pieces, Italian tutoring at two, and tonight there's a reception for the Danish trade delegation."
"That sounds manageable. What's the catch?"
"No catch, Your Highness." Carmela paused, and her professional mask slipped just slightly. "Though I should mention that the Prince has requested to escort you to tonight's reception personally."
I tried to keep my expression neutral. From the way Carmela's lips twitched, I failed spectacularly. "Did he say why?"
"He mentioned something about ensuring you're comfortable." She was definitely suppressing a smile now. "The staff has also noticed that His Highness seems to be in an unusually good mood this morning. He was humming in the breakfast room."
"Humming?"
"The Prince doesn't hum, Your Highness. It's been the subject of considerable discussion below stairs."
The image hit me: a roomful of palace staff in their crisp uniforms, analyzing Archie's breakfast humming like intelligence officers decoding enemy transmissions. I pressed my lips together, fighting to keep a straight face.
"We had a nice dinner last night," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around transparent. "Maybe he just enjoyed the food."
"Of course, Your Highness. The food."
Her tone made clear she wasn't buying that for a second.
The etiquette lesson took place in a ballroom on the palace's west wing, a cavernous space of gilded mirrors and frescoed ceilings.
Cherubs cavorted overhead, frozen in paint for centuries, watching with rosy cheeks as I attempted to master the art of the curtsy.
The parquet floor was polished to such a shine that I could see my own uncertain reflection staring back at me with each dip and rise.
Madame Delacroix circled me like a particularly elegant shark. "Chin up. Back straight. You're greeting a duchess, not searching for dropped coins."
I adjusted, and she gave a grudging nod. "Better. Again."
We worked through the entire European diplomatic hierarchy, from grand duchesses to minor baronesses, and I managed to complete the sequence without falling over or looking like I was having a seizure. Progress, by Madame Delacroix's exacting standards.
"Your deportment is improving," she said, which from her was practically a standing ovation. "We may make a proper princess of you yet."
"I live to exceed your expectations."
"Don't get cocky, Your Highness. Tonight's reception will require sustained elegance for several hours. One successful curtsy does not a princess make."
"Noted. Sustained elegance. No premature celebration."
I was halfway to my wardrobe fitting, navigating corridors I was finally beginning to recognize, when I nearly collided with Archie coming around a corner.
We both stopped short.
He was wearing a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no jacket, his hair slightly less perfect than usual, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
The informality was jarring in a palace where everyone else seemed pressed and polished at all hours. It made him look younger. More real.
For a moment we just stood there, grinning at each other like idiots in the middle of a marble corridor.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi."
"Fancy meeting you here."
"I was just..." He gestured vaguely. "Walking."
"Walking. Right. Important royal duty, walking."
"Essential to the functioning of the monarchy."
A footman passed us, his gaze fixed determinedly forward with the kind of studied obliviousness that took years of training to perfect. I realized we were standing close enough that anyone could see this wasn't a casual encounter. The air between us practically hummed.
"I should get to my fitting," I said, not moving.
"And I should get to my... meeting."
"What meeting?"
"I don't actually remember." A hint of color crept up his neck. "There might not be a meeting. I might have just been walking past your wing of the palace for no particular reason."
"That's a lot of walking for no reason."
"I'm a very active person."
He'd come looking for me. Crown Prince Archibald, with a schedule packed full of Important Royal Duties, had manufactured an excuse to walk past my rooms on the off chance he might run into me. The knowledge settled into me, warm and unexpected.
"About last night," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, could see the pulse jumping in his throat.
"What about it?"
"I wanted to make sure you didn't regret anything."
"Do I look like I regret anything?"
He studied my face, his gaze traveling over my features with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there, the same gesture from last night, and my breath caught at the memory it triggered.
"You look like you slept well," he said.
"I did. Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"I may have spent some time... thinking."
"About anything in particular?"
His voice had dropped lower, intimate, and I was acutely aware that we were standing in a public corridor where anyone could see us. Where anyone could notice the way we were leaning toward each other, the shrinking distance between us.
"Nothing specific," I managed. "Just general thoughts. Random mental activity."
"I also had some random mental activity. Quite a lot of it, actually."
"Did you?"
"Very distracting."
"Your Highness?" A voice from down the corridor shattered the moment. "The wardrobe team is ready for you."
I stepped back, my pulse unsteady. "Right. Wardrobe. Yes. Important."
Archie's eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary. "I'll see you tonight?"
"Unless someone sabotages the reception."
"Don't jinx it."
I walked away toward my fitting with the distinct feeling that every nerve in my body was standing at attention.
Worth it.
The wardrobe fitting took place in a sun-drenched room overlooking a courtyard of lemon trees. The scent of citrus drifted through the cracked windows, mixing with the smell of new fabric and the expensive perfumes of the designers who had assembled to dress me.
I stood on a small platform in my underwear while approximately seventeen thousand evening gowns were paraded before me, each one debated like a matter of national security.
"The emerald brings out her eyes," one designer argued, holding up a confection of green silk.
"But the sapphire says 'approachable ally,'" another countered.
"The burgundy suggests passion and commitment to the alliance."
"That's too aggressive for a trade reception."
I stood there, being discussed like a particularly complicated piece of furniture, and tried to find the humor in it. A month ago I'd been picking out my own clothes from a closet the size of a bathroom. Now I had a committee.
"What about that one?" I pointed to a midnight blue silk that had been pushed to the back of the rack, half-hidden behind a voluminous ball gown. "I like the color."
"Excellent choice, Your Highness." Carmela pulled it out. The fabric caught the light, shifting between navy and something darker, like the Mediterranean at twilight. "Simple, elegant, photographs beautifully. Perfect for tonight."
"Sold. Can I put on clothes now?"
The dress fit like it had been made for me, which it probably had been, at some point during the past week's flurry of emergency tailoring. The silk skimmed my curves, and the color made my skin glow in ways I hadn't known skin could glow.
"You look beautiful," Carmela said, and she sounded like she meant it.
"I look like a princess."
"You are a princess, Your Highness."
I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at me was a stranger, polished, elegant, like she belonged in a palace instead of behind a coffee counter. It was disorienting in a way I couldn't fully name. Like wearing someone else's skin.
"Still getting used to that," I admitted.
I was watching the way the dress moved when Carmela went to check something in the next room. The sound I heard wasn't quite a gasp, more like all the air leaving someone's lungs at once.